"Good enough," Das Shamra grunted. The fat blueskin's face was beaded with sweat. Obviously the Martians weren't looking forward to their trip through space--but they were willing to put up with it for the sake of the millions in dionate to be grabbed off Phobos. Kendall grinned and jammed down the blastoff key. The ship sprang skyward. * * * * * He had his back to a man with a gun. That didn't make him feel happier. But the little ship bit a chunk out of the sky, climbed higher and higher. He heard a groan from behind him, but didn't turn around. He kept himself bent over the controls, forced himself to remain conscious as the acceleration mounted. Three g's. Four. He yelled over his shoulder, "How you doin' back there? Comfortable?" There was no reply. He grinned and stepped up the acceleration. Seven g's. Eight. The gravity was tearing at him like a demon's claws, but he clung to consciousness. A figure ran through his mind: Mars--gravity, O.38. He could stand two-and-a-half times as much acceleration as the blueskins behind him. His Earth-trained muscles, used to responding to a much heavier grav, could handle eight g's without too much strain. The Martians must be having fits. Nine g's. Ten. He turned, looked back for the first time. Reddish-brown blood trickled from Das Shamra's fleshy lips. The blaster had long since fallen from his limp hand and lay on the spaceship's deck. They were all unconscious--all of them, battered and beaten by the sort of acceleration an Earthman was able to take with relative ease. Grinning savagely, Kendall boosted the thrust until he nearly blacked out himself. Then he seized the controls and started to reverse the ship. Some time later, he landed it neatly outside the Space Service headquarters. Taking a loving look at the Martians, with their wrenched, distorted faces, he scooped up Das Shamra's blaster and opened the hatch. The computer technician he had fought with before came running out on the landing field. "What is the meaning of this? An unauthorized flight? Who are you? Oh--Kendall!" "Yes, Kendall," he said, leaning dizzily against the side of the ship. Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he said, "Get the Port Police out here on the double. There are six very sick would-be smugglers inside this ship. When you've got our green-faced blueskins packed away, I want another date with that computer. I think I can get an okay now--and I can't get back to Earth soon enough!"